Nugget skids on the wood floor, then launches himself at me with the enthusiasm of a creature who has never known fear or personal boundaries.
I squeak and step back.
His paws hit my thighs, and before I can react, he grabs the edge of my towel in his teeth.
No.
No, no, no.
“Nugget!” I hiss, hands flying to the towel.
The dog tugs like it’s a game.
The towel slips.
Time slows in the way it does right before disaster.
Maverick’s eyes go wide.
His body goes still.
And the towel drops.
I make a sound that might be a strangled gasp or the beginning of my soul leaving my body.
I snatch the towel up instantly, pressing it to my chest, trying to wrap it back around me with hands that suddenly don’t know how to be hands.
My face goes nuclear.
My whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I stare at the floor, because if I look at Maverick, I might actually combust.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for. Existing. Having a dog commit towel theft. Being curvy. Having nipples. Being alive.
All of it.
Nugget barks once, proud of himself, then prances in a circle like he just won a prize.
Maverick makes a sound that is half growl, half strangled exhale.
When I risk a glance up, he looks… wrecked.
Not amused.
Not indifferent.
Famished is the only word that fits, and it punches me right in the gut.
His eyes are dark. His jaw is clenched. His hands are fisted at his sides like he’s trying not to touch anything, including air.
Then he turns away so fast it’s almost violent.
He faces the wall like it personally owes him an apology.
His voice comes out tight. “Nugget. Out.”
